


Another Story

by ckofshadows



Series: The Secret [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Action/Adventure, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 12:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10217870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ckofshadows/pseuds/ckofshadows
Summary: It's okay if you're mad at me, as long as you're mine. Are you still mine?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to The Secret, which should really be read first... otherwise this will make very little sense. Thanks for reading!

I've never been a morning person. Kurt likes to tease me about it, but I happen to know for a fact that he finds it kind of adorable when I take a good twenty minutes to wake up every morning. One of his favorite pastimes is to slowly rouse me from slumber with his lips, and then his hands, and then his mouth-

"Blaine. Wake up."

I crack one eyelid blearily, squinting at the red numbers on my alarm clock. "S'only seven, Kurt... let's sleep in."

"I said get up. Now."

All of a sudden, I realize that it's not Kurt's voice I'm hearing. I open both eyes, my brain still foggy with sleep, and watch as Scott moves around the bedroom quickly, lowering all of the window shades and closing the blackout drapes. It doesn't make any sense – how did he get in here? And if he's trying to wake us up, shouldn't he be opening the shades to let in more light? "Wh... why are you calling me Blaine?" I ask him dumbly.

He stops, blinks at me for a second, then keeps plowing ahead. "Andrew. Perfecto, whatever. It doesn't matter anymore. Get up." He opens our closet door and pulls Kurt's monogrammed luggage set down from the shelf. "We're leaving, right now."

I rub my thumbs against my eyelids. "Wait. What? Leaving where? What's going on?"

"You've been compromised. Castellano's men know where you are. Where's Kurt?"

And with that, I'm awake. I look at Kurt's side of the bed, where he should be slumbering peacefully beside me on a typical Saturday morning, and his side is empty. I run my palm over the sheets, and they're cold. "Scott?" I ask, dread twisting in my stomach. "Where's Kurt?"

"I just asked you that." Scott's expression is grim, and I think I know what that means.

"Do they have him? Do they have Kurt?" I'm struggling to breathe.

I've known Scott Ward since I was twelve years old. He's a U.S. Marshal, yeah, but I've never thought of him as particularly military in his comportment. But now there's a steely look in his eyes, a set in his jaw, and his fingertips keep brushing against the gun I can see in his holster. He looks at me hard and says, "We need to extract you. Now."

"I'm not going anywhere without my husband." My blood is pumping through my veins so fast I swear I can hear my pulse pounding in my eardrums. I fumble for my cell phone on my nightstand, and my heart catches when I see that there's a new text message from Kurt:

_We're out of blueberries, so I'm running out to get some for brunch. Be back soon, love you._

"He's just shopping," I choke out in relief. "He'll be back soon."

"We can't wait. There's no time." Scott is piling clothes, shoes and toiletries into Kurt's suitcases. He's mixing up our wardrobes, and taking no care to fold Kurt's designer outfits, and my mind is still racing to catch up with what's happening.

"He's getting blueberries."

"Hey!" Scott yells, straightening up with eyes blazing. "Are you listening to me?  _They know where you are_. You're lucky we got to you first. Now  _move._ "

Untangling my legs from the sheets, I get up and run over to the armoire, pulling out clothes and getting dressed. "We wait for Kurt," I tell him firmly.

"You don't get to call the shots here, kid. We leave in one minute. If Kurt's here, we take him; otherwise, the Marshal service will pick him up separately if we can. No guarantees. One minute." He zips up the two suitcases as a couple of agents dressed in black enter the room, speaking quietly into their headsets.

"Extraction is a go," one of the men says to Scott, who nods and turns to me.

"I'm sorry, Blaine – I mean, Andrew. We need to go. I'll leave someone behind in case Kurt comes back."

Somehow, my heart starts beating even faster. "What do you mean,  _in case_? What aren't you telling me?"

He locks eyes with another member of his team. They don't say anything.

"Okay," I say shakily, grabbing my running sneakers from under the bed and slipping them on my feet. "Just let me pee first. I assume we have a long drive ahead of us and you won't have the time for us to stop for that."

Looking pacified as I lace up the sneakers, Scott nods. "Fine. You have thirty seconds to use the bathroom, and then we're out. Hurry." He turns to whisper quietly with the other two men, who are leaning over what looks like a building blueprint together.

"Thank you." Tying the shoelaces tight and slipping my cell phone into the front pocket of my jeans, I enter the bathroom and shut the door, locking it behind me. I turn the water in the sink on high, which I really hope muffles the sound of the old, squeaky bathroom window sliding open. I don't pause to wait for any knocks on the door or shouts of discovery. The window opens and I clamber out, landing on the fire escape and hurrying to descend the three flights of wobbly metal stairs as quietly as I can.

I was never a morning person. Kurt can wake up and immediately go for a run if he wants, but my legs never seem willing to work until I've been awake for a while. They're unsteady on the stairs, and making far too much noise in the early morning air. I send up a silent prayer that Scott isn't checking the bathroom yet. I just have to get far enough away that he and his team won't catch me before I can find Kurt.

Because it's not worth it without him. None of it is. I know I gave him the choice to stay with me or let me go, back when we found each other again. But what I never told him was how bleak my prospects would have been if he hadn't chosen me. What would I have done? Gone back to live with my parents? Based every new relationship on a new, false identity? Never shared a truly honest moment with anyone ever again?

Kurt gets me. Whether I'm Andrew or Blaine or Perfecto, he understands me in a way that no one else ever could. If I lose him now... If they have him, if they've  _hurt_ him...

My feet hit the pavement and I take off down the side alley. The extraction team must be on the main street, I figure, so I dart into the employee entrance of the bagel shop next door. A quick shortcut and I'm back on the street, running as fast as I can and hoping the team doesn't look in my direction.

Two blocks away is our favorite supermarket, which has a decent-sized organic fruit section that I know Kurt loves. I make it to the store in record time, weaving past a pair of older ladies pushing their carts near the entrance, and race toward the produce department.

He's not here. I run up and down every aisle, and he's not here.

There's a fluttering in my chest that I can't quite understand. If he's not here, and he's not at home, where is he?

I go back outside, running three blocks down the street to another supermarket we sometimes use. It has good double-coupon deals, and Kurt's been trying to save up some money so that we can see a Broadway musical together–

My heart sinks as I run through the second market. He's not here either.

 _Fuck_.

My cell phone starts to ring in my pocket. It's Scott. Ignoring his call, I leave the market, go a couple of stores over and duck into a Starbucks. Once the ringing stops, I dial Kurt's number, praying that for once he'll get decent cell reception and be able to receive the call. I look around the inside of the coffee shop as his Lady Gaga ringback trills a familiar tune. It feels as though everyone is watching me from behind their unfolded newspapers and venti coffees.

Scott's words are still echoing in my ears.  _You've been compromised. They know where you are._

"Pick up," I murmur desperately. "Pick up, baby, pick up," and then the ringing stops abruptly.

"Somebody's up early," he says, sounding amused. "Did the garbage truck wake you again?"

I feel my knees buckle, and drop unsteadily onto a wooden chair. "Kurt." The relief washes over me in a cold wave. "You're okay."

"Of course, sweetie. Didn't you get my text?" I can hear him humming to himself as he walks down the street. "I got this recipe for lemon blueberry scones, and-"

"Where are you?"

He pauses briefly. "Andrew? What's wrong?"

"Kurt, where are you right now?"

There's a sharp intake of breath. "Oh god. Is it happening? Are you all right?"

"I'm okay. But I need you here with me,  _right now_. Where are you?"

"I'm... I don't know, five blocks from home?"

Instinctively, I turn to look toward the store window. "Where? Are you anywhere near the Starbucks?"

"Which Starbucks? There are like a thousand!"

He's getting shrieky, which means he's scared. I force myself to speak calmly and clearly. "I'm at the one across from that bookstore with the tufted couch that you like. I need you to drop what you're doing and come meet me."

"I was getting blueberries at the farmer's market. Seven blocks west from you. I'm coming." His breaths come faster, and I realize he's running. "Stay on the phone with me," he pleads. "Please don't hang up."

There's a beep, and when I check the cell phone display, I see that Scott is calling again on the other line. "I won't hang up," I promise Kurt, standing and starting to pace back and forth. The other patrons in the Starbucks are definitely looking at me strangely. "Where are you now?"

"Passing the old movie theater. Don't hang up." There's the loud sound of a car horn blaring, and I know he must be running through traffic, but I can't even tell him to wait for the lights to change, because Scott is calling again, and  _we've been compromised_ , and–

Someone enters the Starbucks. I look up hopefully, and then my fingers tighten around the phone.

"Kurt," I say weakly. "Get here now."

He lets out a little desperate sound as Scott marches over, grabbing my arm and pulling me roughly across the store."I should just let them catch you," Scott says furiously, and I'd believe the anger if I hadn't seen the glint of relief in his eyes when he first caught sight of me. He drags me toward the door as I struggle against him, the cell phone cradled against my ear like a lifeline.

"Kurt,  _please_!"

The van is idling outside, and it's as black and nondescript as I would have expected. There are three men flanking it, their hands on their holsters. One grabs me by the shoulder, helping Scott throw me into the van. "Please!" I beg. "He's coming! Scott, please!" I hit the back of the van hard and scramble up, dropping the cell phone and pushing past the packed suitcases and reaching for the door even as it slams shut. "Don't do this!" There's no handle on the inside of the door, so I start kicking at it fruitlessly.

Another holstered man is watching me from the driver's seat, and Scott gets in the passenger side. The other three agents wait outside, making no move to enter the van. Scott raises his fingers to his headset, listening, then says, "Copy that. Extraction is a go."

"Scott!"

He nods to the driver as I let out a sob, and the van lurches forward. Then, suddenly, it brakes hard, sending me tumbling across the floor. I sit up and look up toward the windshield, dazed, and Kurt is standing in front of the van, his eyes wide and wild and his hands braced hard against the hood. Scott mutters something and rushes out, grabbing Kurt roughly by the shoulder, opening the sliding door, and shoving him in beside me.

The van roars again, and then we're hurtling through New York City streets at seven-thirty on a Saturday morning, bracing ourselves against the side of the van to keep from sliding on the floor, and Kurt's clutching at my shirt and gasping for breath, a bag of blueberries crushed in between us...

And if I wasn't awake before, I am now.


	2. Chapter 2

After Scott silently confiscates our cell phones, Kurt and I move to the back corner of the van. I can barely see his face in the dim depths of the Lincoln Tunnel. We're still holding onto each other tightly, but his breathing has finally evened out and he's not trembling anymore. He still hasn't said a word to me, though. Neither has Scott, nor his anonymous driving companion. We're all sitting terribly quietly as the van speeds toward the New Jersey Turnpike, leaving the skyline of New York City and the ashes of our plan behind us.

The silence is worrying me. Kurt is a lot of things, but quiet isn't one of them. I stroke his shoulder, and he lets out a troubled sigh.

"Did Scott tell you what happened?" he whispers.

"What do you mean?"

"How did Castellano's men find us?" His eyes are pained, and it's only then that I catch on.

"No, he didn't say."

It's been a given since day one that, barring some huge slip-up on my part, if my parents were safe then I was safe too. I look nothing like I did when I was twelve, and that alone should protect me from bounty hunters armed with age-progression renderings. The only way that they could conceivably find me would be if they found my parents first. During our honeymoon visit, Kurt and I hadn't ever come right out and told Mom and Dad where we lived, but they'd spent years hearing me talk about our plan to live in New York together. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together.

My palms are sweating, and my mouth is dry. I think of my mom and dad in their little house, reading mystery novels and watching Antiques Roadshow, and I wonder if that's what they were doing when Castellano's men walked in the door. How long did they question Mom and Dad before they gave up my location? What did my parents have to endure before talking was the only way to make it stop?

Kurt shifts, pulling me down so that I'm cradled against him. He holds me gently, smoothing back my hair.

I've always felt guilty for leaving my parents behind. When we were all together, I could protect them just through my appearance. I didn't look like Perfecto, so by association they seemed less likely to be Perfecto's parents. Once I was gone, once I'd reunited with Kurt, I didn't keep in touch with them like I should have. We wrote to each other sporadically through Scott, but for the most part, we were living our separate lives.

An image flashes in front of my eyes, of my mother being tortured, and I sit up quickly. Kurt watches me, his eyes searching mine. "Blaine?"

I huff out a humorless laugh. "First Scott, now you. Why am I suddenly Blaine again?"

"You never stopped being Blaine to me," he admits. "I know I've been married to Andrew for five years, but when I think about you, you're always Blaine."

"Well, we're going to have to pick new names soon enough. Maybe I can be Blaine again for you."

Scott keeps checking the rear-view mirrors tensely. When I turn around to look behind us, I see that there's a silver sedan right on our tail. Once the van moves to the center lane, though, the sedan accelerates past us. Scott relaxes a bit after that.

We're almost to Delaware when Kurt leans over and says to me, "We need to call my dad."

My heart sinks at the thought of Burt Hummel – the man who, despite knowing the extent of the danger that surrounded me, welcomed me into his family with open arms. He may have dreamed of one day having a daughter-in-law when Kurt was a child, but to know Burt now, you'd think that I was exactly what he'd always wanted for his only son.

"It's not allowed," I tell Kurt. He knows this. We both know he knows this. "We're not allowed to contact anyone."

"I know," he says. "But I don't care. We need to call my dad."

I nod and think for a while. Scott and the Marshal behind the wheel are murmuring to each other and looking at the exit signs we pass, and I realize that the van must be running low on gasoline. Sure enough, when a rest stop with an Exxon station comes into view, the Marshal signals to the right and pulls off the highway.

Letting go of Kurt, I crawl toward the front of the van. "Hey Scott," I say, leaning on the back of his seat.

"Hey." He half-turns to talk to me, and the tension in his face has faded. I guess that means we're out of immediate danger. "We're just pulling over for gas."

"Yeah, I figured. Listen, Kurt and I need to call his father."

Scott sighs. "You know that's never going to happen."

"Right, but the thing is... it's going to happen." His eyes widen at my nerve, but I continue undeterred. "See, Burt won't know what's happened to us. We might have been compromised and taken into protective custody. Or, we might have been killed by Castellano's goons and dumped in the Hudson River. Or, hell, we might have been mugged on the street in Chelsea. Burt will have no idea which it is; all he'll know is that he can't reach us on the phone. And he has a heart condition. That sort of stress–"

"I'm not saying I'm not sympathetic," Scott interrupts. "I met Kurt's dad at your wedding reception, remember? He seemed like a nice enough guy. But once you're pulled, you can't contact anyone from your old life. You know that, Perfecto."

"Yeah, but I also know Kurt," I tell him. "I know he won't be able to leave without telling his dad. And whether it's today, or tomorrow, or in another three months, he'll find a phone and he'll call Burt. So would you rather he do it now? Or later, when we're in an area code that traces back to our new location?"

Scott actually seems to be considering it, as the other Marshal pulls the van up alongside a full-service gas pump and hands the Exxon attendant a wad of cash. So I break out the biggest bargaining chip.

"You owe me," I say.

Scott scoffs. "How do I owe you anything?"

"You violated my rights back in New York. If I say I don't want to go somewhere with you, you can't force me." The other Marshal is watching me, I notice, and nodding a little in agreement. "I almost got separated from my husband because you can't put your past behind you and realize that I'm not another Billy–"

"Enough," Scott says, and I know I went too far.

"We'll find a way," I push. "Or, you can get a disposable cell phone at this rest stop, and we'll call Burt from here. It's your call."

Scott glances over at the driver, who gives him a faint shrug. "Not a word of this to anyone, Morris," Scott says to him through gritted teeth, then gets out of the van and hurries away, heading for the Tiger Mart.

The other Marshal – Morris, apparently – keeps looking around us. I can't tell whether it's just a force of habit, or whether he actually thinks the bounty hunters could find us here. "Not bad, kid," he says under his breath.

"What?"

"I've never seen Scott Ward back down on anything. I can't believe you just talked him into breaking the rules."

"Seriously," comes a voice beside me, and I'm startled to find that Kurt is at my side. "That was impressive."

I sigh. "Yeah, well. I have some leverage." He raises an eyebrow, but I don't elaborate. Morris probably knows all about Billy Rice, and I don't want him chiming in if I tell Kurt the story. Because there are some details I don't ever want Kurt to know.

We sit and wait for Scott to return, and I'm struck yet again by how well Kurt is dealing with all of this. We've just left our families, our friends, our jobs, our home, our entire  _lives_  behind us. All we have now is each other, and a couple of hastily packed suitcases. I would have expected tears, but his eyes are dry and alert as we watch Scott return with a plastic bag.

Scott climbs into the van and pulls out a six-pack of soda, a handful of Slim Jims, and a prepaid disposable cell phone. Kurt snatches the phone from him quickly, and we scurry back into the corner of the van to give ourselves the illusion of privacy. "There's a five-minute limit on it," Scott calls back to us, opening a Slim Jim. The gas station attendant finishes filling the tank, and Morris steers the van over to idle on the far side of the rest stop.

"We have to be careful what we say," I remind Kurt needlessly. "We don't want him to know anything that could endanger him or your family."

" _Our_  family," he corrects me.

My throat grows tight as I think about my mom and dad again. The fact that Scott hasn't mentioned them at all speaks volumes. Deep down, I realize that Burt Hummel is now the closest thing I have left to a parent. "Right."

Kurt tears open the packaging and turns on the phone, pausing to take a deep breath before dialing his home number. It's late in the morning on a Saturday, which means that Burt and Carole will be relaxing over bagels and slices of cantaloupe, sharing the newspaper over the kitchen table. Kurt used to tease them about how predictable they were, but I always kind of liked it.

Maybe I was just envious. Nothing in my life was ever predictable.

Kurt presses a button and the speakerphone switches on. There are three rings before the call is answered.

"Hello?"

"Carole," Kurt says. "Hey, it's me."

"Kurt!" she says, sounding delighted. "I almost didn't pick up because we didn't recognize the number on the caller ID. You calling to talk to your dad?"

"Yes, please." He holds out his free hand and I take it, squeezing it as we wait.

"Sure, honey. Just a second, he's right here."

There's a brief fumbling noise, and then – "Hello?"

"Hey Dad."

"Hey yourself, city slicker! How's it going?"

"Well, we've had a bit of an exciting morning."

"Oh really? Which designer had a sample sale?"

I can't decide whether to laugh or cry at how well Burt knows his son, and how – despite their being polar opposites – he accepts him so thoroughly.

"No sample sales today, Dad. Actually, I'm calling to let you know that the tide has changed."

I look up at him quizzically, but he's just staring at the phone. There's a long, long pause before Burt answers tensely.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"And Andrew?"

"We're both fine."

"You're safe?"

"Yes, we're setting out to sea."

I don't know why it surprises me that Kurt would have worked out a code with his father. I guess I'm just surprised that he never mentioned it to me before.

"Andrew's really there with you?" Burt says, and I speak up.

"I'm here, Burt," I call.

"Good." He breathes out slowly. "You're together, good. And you'll take care of my boy?"

"I promise I will. I'll protect him with my life."

"You two know how much I love you, right? And that I'm so proud of both of you?"

"We love you too," we say in unison, and then there's a long silence.

"I'll miss you," Burt says sadly, and Kurt raises his fist to press against his mouth hard.

"We'll miss you too," he says. "I love you, Dad. Thanks for... everything."

"It's..." Burt can't seem to finish the sentence, and Kurt shakes his head, his eyes bright.

"Bye, Dad," he whispers.

"Bye, sons."

We end the call, and Kurt finally crumples. He falls into my lap, his body shaking with sobs, as Morris pulls back onto the highway.


	3. Chapter 3

We're on Route 95, just outside of Washington D.C., when Scott tells Morris to take the next exit. About a mile off the highway is a huge Holiday Inn. Morris pulls the van around to the back of the parking lot and finds a deserted spot.

"Take Kurt and the luggage, and check in," Scott instructs Morris once we've parked. "Book adjoining double rooms for a week, with the option to extend the stay if needed. When you're talking with the concierge, make some offhand reference to being father and son. Got it?"

Kurt is tense beside me, still morose over our conversation with his father, and I know that he needs me right now."Why can't we all go in together?" I ask.

"Because from this point on, you and Kurt can't be seen together in public until you're settled into your new location," Scott says. "I want your transport to be as clean as possible. No trail left behind if we can avoid it. Marshal Morris will text me when he and Kurt have settled into the rooms, and then you and I will walk in like we're already guests here. The shifts just changed, so the staff will just assume that we checked in earlier."

He nods to Morris, who gets out of the driver's seat, circles around the van, and slides opens the back door. Kurt takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and climbing out. By the time he's standing beside Morris, he looks unruffled and a little haughty.

It occurs to me that he's had a lot of practice acting like things don't bother him.

They each take a suitcase out of the van, pulling out the handles and rolling the luggage towards the hotel. Scott and I watch them go, then sit and wait.

I desperately want to ask him about my parents. As much as I don't want to hear the awful details about what happened to them, I feel like I owe them that much. I'm still working up the nerve to ask, when Scott speaks up.

"You'll need to pick a new name," he says. He sounds tired.

"Kurt would like for me to be Blaine again."

I'm expecting an argument, but Scott just cocks his head in consideration. "That's not a bad idea. Makes slip-ups less likely – I'm willing to bet he's never really stopped thinking of you by that name."

"Actually, yeah, that's what he told me," I reply. "Do you think he can keep the name Kurt, though? We were only Kurt-and-Blaine for a couple of years back in Ohio; there can't be too much of a trail to be found for that combination."

"As long as you choose new last names, I think we should be able to make that happen." He pulls a spiral notepad out of the glove compartment, and takes a pen out of the center console. "While I've got you here, we need to go over possible photographic exposure."

"That shouldn't be a problem," I assure him, scooting a little closer and kneeling behind his seat so he can hear me better. "Neither of us has had a Facebook for years, and none of our friends have any pictures of us on theirs. In fact, Kurt and I haven't posed for any photos since we got back together. Not even at our wedding." I'm expecting praise, but he's just looking at me like I'm naïve.

"New York City has literally thousands of security cameras," he tells me, "and Greenwich Village is one of the areas with the highest camera density. When they realize they've missed the chance to catch you, Castellano's henchmen are going to find a way to grab the security footage from your apartment building, your workplace, your supermarket, your favorite ATM..."

"Jesus," I breathe.

"The faster we can get to those places before they do, the less likely it is that they'll be able to get a clear image of how you look today. Because an updated photo of you could be deadly right now. What places might have captured a picture of you?"

"Well, I've been working at the ad agency for the past two years. Kurt has an internship at Michael Kors; we meet up for lunch at the deli down the street from his office every day. On weekends I tend bar for extra cash, at Dooley's Pub. We go to the Quik Suds Laundromat every Sunday – the one on 12th Street, not the one on 7th. On Tuesday nights we go out for dinner, usually Italian or Indian. Wednesdays we take a walk around the neighborhood for an hour or so. We sometimes stop for ice cream–"

Scott is gaping at me in disapproval. "Goddamn it, Perfecto, what part of  _stick close to home and minimize outside contact_ was confusing to you two?"

"It's been five years. We thought–" I don't finish the thought.

Obviously we were wrong.

"Right," he says.

Silence descends again, and my thoughts drift back to my parents. Whenever we were relocated, Mom and Dad always followed the Marshals' instructions to the letter. We rarely left the house. Food, toiletries and other necessities were acquired by placing regular orders with a grocery delivery service. Dad had a job, but Mom sat at home almost all of the time, and expected me to do the same.

It was only when I started attending Dalton that I found a refuge from the tense silence of our house. Suddenly I was surrounded by boys my age, and life in a dormitory meant constant socialization. I was given a car to ease the commute home, and I used it to go to malls, and coffee shops, and friends' houses. When Kurt and I started dating, we went out to dinner and saw movies in the Westerville theater. A whole new world opened up to me.

Meanwhile, my parents stayed at home. The tension presses heavily against my chest as I think of the last time I saw them.  _Courage_ , I remind myself sourly. "Scott?"

"Yes?"

"My parents. Are they..."

"Yes," he nods, and I clench my teeth hard, closing my eyes.

"Oh."

"Not that they weren't affected by what happened, but their exposure was nothing like yours. They should be able to stay at their current location, although we are keeping closer tabs on them for the foreseeable future."

My heart stops. "Wait, what?"

"Well, moving witnesses is actually a big security risk. You're far more exposed when you're in transit, and–"

"Are you saying my parents are okay?"

He turns and blinks at me. "Of course they're okay, I would have told you if they weren't."

My knees buckle, and I drop down unsteadily onto the floor of the van. "They're okay?"

"Yes."

"They're safe?"

"Yes. They're fine. Really."

My parents are alive. They're safe, and alive. I might even be able to see them again one day. Alive. I rub my cold palms against my cheeks, struggling to breathe. I can't even feel my fingertips. "Thank god. Oh, thank god." There's a long silence as I process the news. Then I lift my head. "Wait. If Castellano's men didn't find my parents, then how were we compromised?"

Scott lets out a faint, annoyed sound. "You have your loverboy to thank for that one."

"Kurt?" I'm stunned. "What do you mean?"

"That idiot was going on Wikipedia and checking out the entry on Cameron and Perfecto Sanders."

"So what? I'm sure a ton of people check that page–"

"It's not a matter of checking it," he says, shaking his head. "Who did he think was entering in the information on the page? And for what purpose?"

"I don't understand."

"The West Coast Mafia isn't just a bunch of goons with guns, Perfecto. They're smart. They've been using that page to figure out where you are."

"But... how could they do that?"

"There was a section of the entry that listed the last known whereabouts of you and your dad. They cast a wide net – sometimes they said you were in Russia, other times you were in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Every once in a while, they'd change the location, and then they'd wait."

I'm still not following. "Wait for what?"

"For someone to delete it." He rolls his eyes, irritated that I'm still lost. "Kurt was editing the page whenever they posted a location that was too close to being right. When they had a foreign country, or a state in the U.S. that was far from you or your parents, he'd leave it alone. But when they guessed New York City or Florida, he'd delete it. So then the Mafia henchmen knew they were right."

My heart sinks. "And Wikipedia logs the IP address of the person making changes to the entry."

"By the time we realized what Kurt was doing, Castellano's men were already in Greenwich Village, zeroing in on your apartment. Honestly, it's a miracle we got to you in time." He looks away, and I feel guilty for bringing up Billy Rice earlier.

"Scott, you know... even if they'd found us, it wouldn't have been your fault."

He swallows hard, and we're interrupted by the ping of his cell phone. He checks the display and says, "They're in. Let's go."

He gets out and opens the back door for me, then locks up the van. We walk toward the hotel together, and I'm struck by a sense of déjà vu. How many times have I followed Scott into a hotel just like this? How many times will it happen again in the future?

Our rooms are on the sixth floor, at the end of a long hallway. Scott raps on the door in a quick, odd pattern, and Morris opens it, ushering us inside. The first room has two queen-sized beds and a little kitchenette area. Kurt is nowhere to be seen, so I head through the doorway into the adjoining room. It looks the same, except for the lack of a kitchenette. Kurt is lying on one of the beds, staring up at the ceiling.

I stop a few feet from the bed, watching him. "Hey."

He turns his head and holds out his arm toward me. Grateful, I toe off my shoes and crawl onto the bed, curling up against him. The hotel room may be strange, but the familiarity of Kurt's scent, the rise and fall of his chest, the slow sweep of his palm across my back... it all says home to me.

"My parents are okay," I tell him.

"What?" His eyes widen. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. They don't even have to be relocated."

"Oh my god." He lets out a relieved sigh.

"I know."

"I was so worried."

"Me too."

We watch Scott and Morris move around the rooms, setting up a security perimeter. It's a complicated process, I've learned after years of observation. They make sure that all of the windows are closed and locked, then add reinforcements to keep them shut. The blinds and curtains are drawn, then tacked down on all sides. All of the locks and bolts on the door are secured, of course, and they nestle a strip of blackout cord along all of the seams. Finally, they wedge a steel rod in between the door and the floor to make sure neither of the doors can be opened – not even if the person on the other side has a key card and bolt cutter.

"Hey Blaine?" Kurt asks.

"Yeah?"

"If your parents weren't compromised, then how did Castellano's men find us?"

I wince internally. "Well... it was an accident," I tell him, trying to figure out how to break it to him as gently as possible.

"Oh, honey, don't feel guilty," he says at once, drawing me closer against him. "I know that whatever it was, you didn't mean to do it."

"Uh..." I don't know how to respond.

"We both loved our life in New York. And I know that you love my family just as much as I do." He pulls back, looking at me earnestly. "I would never, ever blame you for this. You know that I mean that, right?"

It's not worth telling him the truth. It would only hurt him. So instead, I lean forward to kiss his cheek. "Thank you for understanding, Kurt."


	4. Chapter 4

On our fourth day at the hotel, I wake alone.

It's happened every morning since we got here. Kurt and I go to bed holding each other, and he extricates himself from me once I've fallen asleep. Twice, I've awoken in the middle of the night to the quiet, agonizing sounds of him swallowing his sobs on the far side of the bed.

I can't begrudge him his time to grieve leaving his father. Burt has been a constant, unwavering source of support in his life – for far too many years, he was the only support Kurt had. And now Kurt's been essentially left an orphan.

When I raise my head to look around the room, I spot him sitting over by the window. The shades are still pulled down and tacked tightly, so there's no view of the outside to see. But he's looking at them blankly all the same. I wonder if he's reconsidering the choice he made, to stay with me.

Witness protection, life on the run together from the mob... it all seems exciting and romantic in theory, like one of those spy thrillers Carole loves to read. The reality is so much bleaker. There are days, weeks, possibly even years spent without seeing the sun. There's the ever-present tension and fear. The paranoia that creeps up on you, makes your skin prickle uncomfortably and your eyes catch glimpses of shadows that aren't there.

People like to think of themselves as their own distinct entities, like islands. They don't realize how much of our identities are based on our surroundings.

Take Kurt, for example. He seems like the most individual person you'd ever meet. But then you look more closely and start to realize how dependent he is on the people and places around him. Like how secure he is in his sexuality, because of the acceptance of his father, and Mercedes, and Rachel, and even his old college roommate Eddie. Like how creative and special he seems, because of his flair for fashion. Like how funny he is when he's mocking Rachel's taste in clothes and men, or Finn's ability to dance or, you know, walk.

But once you take him out of his world, what's really left that makes him  _him_? How secure will he be in his sexuality, when everyone who supported him when he came out is suddenly gone? How creative will he seem when he can no longer work in the fashion world, or even wear clothing that makes him stand out in a crowd? How funny can he be about people he's never allowed to mention in public again?

I sit up in bed, wrapping my arms around my knees and watching him. The guilt is back, stronger than ever, for what I've done to him. I could have let him keep living his life in New York, and never seen him again. He could have found someone else. He could have been happy. He could have slept through the night without waking in terror when a floorboard creaked nearby.

"Morning," he says, noticing that I'm up.

"Couldn't sleep?"

He shrugs, then sighs. "Where should we go today?"

"What are our options?"

There's a sheet of hotel stationery on the table beside him, and he picks it up, squinting to read his own handwriting in the faint light. "We could take a historical tour of colonial Williamsburg, go house-hunting in Milan, follow a tagged group of whales out of Maine, or join a team that's scaling Mount Everest. Which do you prefer?"

"Oh, Milan, no question."

Kurt nods in agreement, then climbs onto the other bed, grabbing the remote control off the nightstand and switching on the television set. The episode of  _House Hunters International_ has just begun, and we settle down to watch it. I wish he'd come back into our bed and snuggle with me, but I understand why he doesn't. When your world is reduced to a couple of rooms, the sense of claustrophobia can be unbearable.

"I always wanted to go to Milan," he murmurs, watching wistfully.

"We'll go someday."

"Sure we will."

"We will. I promise."

"I believe you."

I can't even tell which of us is lying.

* * *

Every day, a new Marshal arrives to relieve the old one. First it was Morris, then Walters, then Morris again, then Stevenson. Scott doesn't ever leave, though. I used to think that it was because one Marshal had to protect the witness at all times, without ever getting a break. Then, when Scott lived in our safehouse for the entire year and a half of the Castellano trial, one of the other Marshals confided in me that it was Scott's choice entirely.

"You should take a break," I tell him on the fifth morning. "Go home, see your kid for a couple of days. You have a kid, right?" It's a rhetorical question; I know he has a kid. His name is Will, and he's ten. Scott missed two of his birthdays during the course of the trial.

"It's easier to oversee operations from a home base," he claims.

Every night, around eight o'clock, he Skypes with his wife and son.

Every night, his son asks him if he'll be able to come home soon.

* * *

I awake in the middle of our fifth night at the hotel to find that Kurt is awake and sitting in the other bed, watching television. A quick glance over at the digital clock on the nightstand tells me that it's 3 a.m. At first, I debate whether to pretend to continue sleeping. Then I see the images he's watching on the TV.

"Kurt?"

He turns toward me guiltily. "Oh, hey. Sorry if I woke you."

"Are you really watching a documentary on the West Coast Mafia?"

"Uh..."

"This isn't a good idea, baby," I say gently.

"Don't they say you should know your enemy?"

"Yeah, but watching a video about all of the horrible, violent crimes they've committed over the decades..."

"I found out something very interesting, though." There's a strange glint in his eyes. I can't tell whether it's just the reflection from the television, but it feels ominous somehow. "Did you know that Marco Castellano's nephew is a United States Senator?"

"Kurt-"

"His name is Victor Allen. Marco's sister is Senator Allen's mother."

I shake my head. "I know what you're going to say."

"What if we went to meet with him?" he says, pushing on excitedly. "I'm sure the Marshals could set something up for us. We could talk to him about the trial, and the hit order that's out on you and your dad. Maybe he could call Marco in jail, and - "

"It's not going to happen."

"I know, I know, the documentary said that the senator isn't close with that side of the family, and basically pretends not to know them. But still. We could convince him, I know we could. He has a record of supporting gay rights, and if we were to meet him in person - "

"Kurt." My voice is too sharp, and I can hear one of the Marshals stirring in the next room. I drop back down to a whisper. "It's not going to happen. He would never meet with us. And even if he did, he wouldn't want to offer any assistance."

"But -"

"Trust me. I know about the senator, and I know he has no interest in helping our cause. Especially now that he's running for governor and distancing himself even further from the Castellano family." Kurt's face falls, and I sigh. "I'm sorry. I know you're just trying to come up with a solution."

"There's got to be some way to fix all this," he insists in a small voice. "I just know it. We'll find a way. And then life can go back to normal."

I give him my most convincing smile, and choose not to mention that for most of my life, this has been normal.

* * *

On the eighth day, I can tell something's wrong.

Scott and the Marshal du jour are whispering in the corner of their room, bent over a laptop together. Kurt is immersed in an episode of  _What Not to Wear_ , seemingly oblivious to the suspicious behavior going on next door.

The tension has been growing over the past several days, ever since Scott got an unsettling report. A team of agents had been moving around our neighborhood methodically, finding and removing security footage that might have captured my face, and then they made a discovery.

The security tapes from Dooley's Pub were missing.

There were all sorts of explanations floating around. There were claims that Dooley's security manager, Ralph, was old and forgetful (a fair assessment, in my experience) and might have misplaced the tapes. There were unconfirmed accounts that a couple of heavily muscled men had been seen talking menacingly with Ralph a few days ago. No one knows exactly how it happened, but the tapes are gone now, and the implications are grim.

When Scott appears in our doorway, I can tell right away that something has happened. Something very, very bad.

"What is it?" I ask him.

His expression changes, as though he's trying to appear casual. "I need your wedding bands," he tells us.

I look over at Kurt, then back to Scott indignantly. "You've got to be kidding."

"It's not a request, Perfecto. I need the rings."

"Do you have any idea what Kurt and I went through to–"

"We're making sure that you two aren't seen together for the time being," he interrupts. "That could imply to the Castellano hitmen that we've separated you. If you're seen still wearing your rings, it means that you're still together. Makes a bigger target on both of your backs."

"You think they know about me?" Kurt speaks up. I can't read his expression.

Scott pauses. "Just... just give me the rings, guys." Neither of us makes a move to take our wedding bands off, so he looks at me significantly. "What do you think would happen if your ring ever fell off, Perfecto? What if the wrong person found it?"

"It's never fallen off before," I argue stubbornly. "And even if it suddenly did fall off, how exactly would that be any different from you taking it away from me now? Either way, I'd be without my wedding band."

"Your wedding band that's engraved with the name Hummel, you mean? What do you think Castellano's men would do if they got a hold of it and saw that name?"

It's all he has to say. I'd never put Burt or the rest of Kurt's family at risk. I pull the ring off without a word, handing it to him. Kurt follows suit.

"Thank you." Scott hesitates again.

"What's going on?" I press. "Something's happened."

"Look... I know this is hard," he says, "but we're going to need to separate you two for a while."

Kurt and I gape at each other, aghast. "You can't do that!" I nearly shout. After all we've endured together, the idea of losing Kurt again is simply unimaginable. "That's not an option, Scott. We have to stay together."

"It won't necessarily be forever–"

"Not  _necessarily_?"

"You're just in a lot more danger when you're together–"

"I don't see how," Kurt says shakily. "If this is about those missing security tapes..."

"It is," Scott admits.

"... then I'm willing to take that risk."

"You're not the one who–" Scott stops, pressing his lips together hard. "Look, I'm trying not to scare you two."

"Yeah, well, you're doing a bang-up job of it," I shoot back.

He looks away, taking a deep breath. "The truth is, the game has changed. The Castellanos have upped the bounty on your head significantly. And now, thanks to the stolen security footage from Dooley's Pub, there's an updated photograph going around the internet with the new hit order."

We take a moment to process that new information, before Kurt speaks up.

"So we change Blaine's hair again. Get him a nose job, colored contacts, have him grow a beard or something."

"It's a little more complicated than that."

There's a strange suspicion growing in the pit of my stomach. I hope to god I'm being paranoid. "Scott, just... just show us the hit order."

He finally nods, disappearing back into his room and returning with the laptop. Kurt clambers off his bed and onto mine, and we lean over the screen together, peering at the image as it loads. And then we see it. Kurt gasps and covers his mouth in horror. I freeze, then bolt from the bed, making it halfway to the bathroom before vomiting on the carpet.

It's a huge poster, with thick letters spelling out " **One Million Dollars Cash for the head of Perfecto Sanders. Recent photo of the target below**."

Underneath is a recent and very clear photograph of Kurt's face.


	5. Chapter 5

I can't hear anything.

Kurt and Scott are talking together by the bed, and the other Marshal seems to be saying something to me as he layers towels over my vomit on the carpet, but all I can hear is a loud, persistent ringing in my ears.

I've literally never been this angry in my entire life. Not ever. The fury is building steadily inside of me, and I know that if Marco Castellano were here right now, I could snap his neck. I'd look right into his eyes as I dug my thumbs into his windpipe. I'd kill him without a second thought, and never suffer a moment of guilt over it.

They're looking at me now, all three of them, and I realize someone must have asked me something. I just shake my head dumbly.

Kurt rises from the bed and comes over to crouch down beside me. He speaks very slowly, one hand on my shoulder, and his words break through the fog.

"We need to leave now."

I just blink at him. We can't leave the hotel. There are hundreds, probably thousands of people out there with copies of Kurt's photo and thoughts of what they'd do with a million dollars running through their heads. They're out there, just waiting for us to leave.

"Blaine, we need to go," he says again. "I'll pack up our suitcases. Scott says we can stay together, but we need to be out the door in two minutes. It's not safe here anymore."

He stands and moves away, pulling out a suitcase as I murmur, "I wish you'd never met me."

"What?" he asks, piling clothes and shoes into the case.

"Nothing."

Kurt likes to tell me how brave and strong I am. He marvels at my courage and says how much he admires me. But as I sit on the floor and watch him, I know he's got it all wrong. This is a man who lost his mother to cancer as a child, endured years of violence just for being himself, lost his father to life on the run as an adult, now has a million-dollar bounty attached to his face... and he's packing our suitcases nonchalantly. I can't even manage to stand up right now, and he's bundling up our toothbrushes and shampoo bottles while humming a song under his breath.

"Kurt?"

He's at my side in a second, holding out his hand. "You ready, hon?"

"Thank you."

I can't stand on my own, but with his help, I manage.

* * *

We take the service elevator down to the ground floor and exit through the back of the hotel. Outside, Marshal Morris is idling at the wheel of another van. This one is white with a "Fresh Buns" banner on the side, and god help me, I love Kurt even more when he snickers at it.

The ride to the safehouse takes a few hours. Scott sits in the back of the van with me and Kurt while another Marshal occupies the passenger seat.

"We've got confirmation that Burt and Carole Hummel were extracted safely," Scott tells us. "They're on their way to–"

"Extracted?" Kurt's eyes get very wide. "What do you mean,  _extracted_?"

"They're under our protection for the time being."

"What?"

"I'm sorry," Scott says. "I thought you would realize. Once your photo was attached to the hit order, we had to move quickly to protect your family. Otherwise, anyone who recognized you and wanted the million dollars could go after your family to get it."

Kurt looks as though he's been punched. "So what now?"

"They're going to a safehouse in Ohio to wait while we assess the risk."

"What about the tire and lube shop? My dad's business will go under if he's not around. Dad and Carole need that shop, they've got almost no savings."

Scott glances down at the reports. "Looks like Finn Hudson has assumed responsibility for the auto shop in your dad's absence."

"Finn wasn't extracted too? He's my stepbrother, he could be in danger."

"He doesn't live with your parents, and he's got a different last name, so his risk level is significantly lower. When he said he didn't want to go, we went through the standard precautions with him and he stayed in Lima."

"So will I be able to see my dad?" Kurt asks. "If we're both under protection now?"

Scott shakes his head. "The safest thing for your dad is to be far away from you right now."

After that, Kurt gets very pale. He doesn't say anything for the rest of the drive.

* * *

When I was twelve, my father and I decided to go fishing off a pier in the San Francisco Bay early one morning. We were hoping to catch seaperch, or maybe even cabezon. Instead, we watched in horror as two men were murdered execution-style on a nearby yacht. Dad grabbed my hand and we ran back to the car, driving home in a panic. When we got home, he and I argued for an hour over whether we should report seeing the murders. He argued that it wasn't safe; I argued that it was the right thing to do.

Eventually we got our stories straight and called the authorities. And our lives would never be the same. Neither would my mother's, or Kurt's, or Burt's, or Carole's...

Sometimes I think about all the lives that were destroyed by my stubborn sense of ethics, and I wish I'd listened to my dad that day.

* * *

The new safehouse is bigger than most. Kurt and I get a bedroom, as do Scott and Marshal Morris, and two more still lie empty. We glance at the big television set, but can't bring ourselves to turn it on. For the past week, all we've done is watch TV. It's lost its appeal.

Kurt finds a new spiral notepad lying on a table, and starts sketching fashion designs on the blank pages. He's good, really good, and I wonder how much it's killing him to have lost that part of himself. I watch him, and think about our parents, holed up and frightened in their own safehouses, and really...

Enough is enough.

I wander into the kitchen, where Scott is typing up a report of the day's extraction. "I need to borrow a phone," I tell him. "I need to talk to my father."

He regards me curiously. "Why?"

"It's important. I wouldn't ask if it weren't. Please."

Scott peers behind me, watching as Kurt picks up the notepad and disappears into the bedroom. "Give me an hour or so. I'll reach out to their Marshal and set up a phone call. Okay?"

I nod. "Thank you."

When I go into the bedroom, Kurt's already put the notepad on his nightstand, and is lying in bed under the covers. His eyes are closed, but I can tell he's not really sleeping. He's just not in the mood to talk with me about all of this. Switching off the light with a sigh, I leave the bedroom and go into the living room to wait.

About an hour and a half later, Scott comes in and silently hands me his cell phone. I press it to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Perfecto?" Dad's voice is anxious. "Are you all right? Our Marshal said something had happened."

"I'm fine."

"And Kurt?"

"He's fine too. We're at a safehouse for the time being."

"Good." I can hear murmuring in the background, and then my mom's voice comes on the line.

"Honey, you're both okay?"

"Yeah, Mom, we're fine."

"Thank god."

"I need to talk to Dad privately, though, I'm sorry."

"It's fine; I just needed to hear your voice."

Dad gets back on the phone as I walk into one of the empty bedrooms. "What's up?"

"A new hit order was released," I say quietly, moving to sit on the bed in the far corner of the room. I turn my back to the doorway and drop down to a whisper. "They've upped the bounty on my head to a million dollars and released an updated photograph."

"Shit." Dad blows out a long breath. "Well... maybe it's time to get some plastic surgery. I know you've been resistant to it in the past–"

"The photo isn't of me, Dad. It says my name, but it's a picture of Kurt."

"Christ." There's a long silence, and then he says, "You know why they'd do that."

"I know."

"The Castellanos don't think for a moment that Kurt is Perfecto Sanders."

"I know, Dad." I pinch the bridge of my nose and force myself to breathe slowly. "They're trying to draw me out of hiding. They think I'll expose myself to protect my husband."

"What are you going to do?"

"Well, that's why I called, actually. You know that thing that happened, that we never talk about?"

"Perfecto," he whispers. "No."

"I can't keep doing this, Dad. I've spent more than half of my life on the run from the mob. They've separated me from my parents, threatened my husband's life, endangered everyone I know... it needs to end, now. I need to finish this once and for all."

"We had an agreement," he reminds me desperately. "It's too dangerous. We don't know how he'd react."

"What's he going to do that he hasn't already done?" I argue.

"Perfecto–"

"I need to do this, Dad. It's the only thing that might work. I'm just calling you because... well, there's the other part that needs to be done. If this is going to work, I need to have the security system in place. I need you to make a recording of what really happened, and put the tape in a safety deposit box. Give the key to your Marshal, and tell him to open the box if anything happens to either of us."

He doesn't answer at first.

"Dad?"

"I should be doing this, not you," he says, his voice tight. "I'm your father, I'm supposed to protect you."

"You've protected me just fine over the years."

"Right," he says, huffing out a humorless laugh. "Right."

"I'm still here, aren't I?" The unspoken  _for now_ lingers in the air. "Besides, I'm twenty-five years old. I'm a man now, and it's time I stopped acting like a child. I need to step up and take control of my own destiny."

"I understand," he says. "I'm so proud of you, son. I wish I could take some credit for the person you've become."

Suddenly, I know how Kurt must have felt when he had his last conversation with his father. The struggle to sound strong when my world is crumbling around me... I can't keep it up much longer. "I love you, Dad. I love both of you."

"We love you too, Perfecto. Please be safe. Remember that Kurt needs you, and so do we."

"Bye." I end the call and slump forward, cradling my head in my palms.

"So," comes a voice from the doorway. I turn quickly, startled, and see Scott standing there. "When do we leave?"

" _We_ aren't going anywhere," I tell him archly, rising to my feet and walking past him, heading for the closet by the front door. My black peacoat is hanging there, and I pull it out, remembering just how cold San Francisco can be in November. "You're staying at the safehouse, and you and Morris are protecting my husband."

He snorts. "You really think you can get a meeting with Marco Castellano without my help?" At my surprised look, he rolls his eyes. "I'm not an idiot, Perfecto. This is my job. I'm put on every case that involves the West Coast Mafia, and there's never been a hit order like this one on a witness before."

"I don't know what you mean," I claim coolly.

"A thirteen-year contract on your head? One that not only still exists after Castellano's conviction, but had its reward suddenly  _double_ out of the blue, more than five years after the trial ended?" He looks at me pointedly. "That's not a revenge hit. That's a silencing hit."

I look away, swallowing. "I'm not telling you anything."

"I wouldn't expect you to." Scott raises his hand, dangling a set of car keys. "So again, when do we leave?"

There's a moment of indecision, before I blurt out, "Now."

He nods with a slight smile, goes over to the couch to murmur something to Morris, then heads out the front door.

I walk softly into our darkened bedroom, where Kurt is finally fast asleep, his legs tangled in the sheets. He looks so peaceful, and I think about how I might have woken him in another life. Instead, I reach for his spiral notepad on the bedside table and flip open to a fresh page, scribbling a note to him.

It kills me not to kiss him, but I can't chance waking him. He's safe here. I can't put him in danger by bringing him with us.

The sound of a car engine starting up outside gets my attention, and I rise to my feet, setting the pad back on the table and tiptoeing over to the door. I take just a moment to look back at him, wanting to remember him this way. The faint light from the hall is enough to show the smooth lines of his lovely face, and the curl of his long fingers around the pillow, and the thick letters on his pad spelling out,  _I'll never say goodbye to you._


	6. Chapter 6

When I was little, I used to be afraid of monsters. Before bedtime, I'd make my parents check both of my closets, and under my bed, and even behind my drapes. I was okay if the lights were on, but once they were off, it was as if I could sense movement in the dark, as if something sinister were slowly crawling toward me.

I tried to be brave. If Disney had taught me anything, it was that men were brave.

I was twelve when I encountered the most terrifying monster of all. I'd heard of Marco Castellano, of course. Everyone had. He was the legendary, untouchable godfather of the West Coast Mafia. We used to tell stories about him at slumber parties to scare each other. We imagined that his eyes glowed red when he was angry, and that he could shoot fireballs out of his palms.

In truth, Castellano's eyes were a light brown, and his hands were unremarkable, save for a few liver spots. He had white hair and a thick belly, and looked like someone's grandfather. I didn't even realize it was him at first, when he took out his gun and pressed the butt against a kneeling man's head.

Marco Castellano, with his placid eyes and his steady hands, would become the creature who haunted my nightmares. He was a phantom who could find me anywhere. I could never relax, not even in sleep. It was a waiting game, to see when and where he would finally catch me.

* * *

We take turns driving. Scott would, no doubt, prefer to be the one behind the wheel at all times, with me hiding in the trunk or something, but he accedes that we'll make better time if we split the drive. So every four hours or so, we pull over, switch places, and then get back on the road. We push 90 miles per hour for most of the drive. It makes me nervous until we pass several police cars without incident, and I realize Scott must have special plates on this car.

I'm not used to taking road trips without singing along with a bunch of mix CDs, or my iPod, or at least the radio. Scott insists on silence, though, so that he can keep an eye on the cars around us for any suspicious activity. He makes a series of calls on his cell phone, and manages to call in enough favors to get me a meeting with Marco Castellano.

I'm grateful, but at the same time, I'm completely terrified. I know now that Castellano's eyes don't glow red, and I know his palms don't shoot fireballs. But the reality is somehow even worse.

* * *

Just outside of St. Louis, when I'm driving in the left lane and rehearsing what I'll say to Castellano when we meet, Scott's cell phone rings.

"It's Morris," he says to me, after glancing at the screen, then answers it. "Yeah, this is Ward... What? ... He  _what_?"

"Is it Kurt?" I ask, my heart rate picking up. "Is he okay?"

Scott has one hand pressed firmly against his mouth. At first I think he's upset. Then I realize he's trying to stifle his laughter. "Hold on, Morris, I'm going to put you on speakerphone." He pushes a button, and then–

"Yep, so I'm being held up," comes Morris' calm voice. "I'm the hostage of a crazed lunatic right now."

I look at Scott in terror, until we hear a shrill voice shout:

_"This is not a joke! I am not afraid to use this!"_

"Is that Kurt?" I ask, and Scott nods.

"Apparently he's wielding a ballpoint pen like a weapon and demanding to be taken to you right away."

"Oh, god." My heart sinks. "Let me pull over so I can talk to him." I take the next exit off Route 64, pulling into a gas station since we're running low on gasoline anyway. Scott and I switch places, and he goes inside to pay the gas station attendant and buy supplies while I get on the phone. "Morris?"

"Yup."

"Can I talk to him, please?"

"I don't know, Perfecto, I'm afraid to get too close to him," Morris says drily. "He might get ink on my shirt."

"Is that Blaine?" Kurt asks shrilly. "Let me speak with him!" There's a brief pause, and then: "Hello? Blaine?"

"Hi, Kurt," I sigh.

"Are you all right?" he asks anxiously.

"I'm fine, I'm with Scott, and we–"

"How could you  _do_  this?" Now that he's assured that I'm okay, he's in full Kurt Hummel Fury Mode. "How could you just  _leave_  me, without even a word? How  _could_  you, Blaine?"

"Baby, I–"

"Don't you 'baby' me. Don't you  _dare_. I'm a grown man, and I'm your husband, and this is supposed to be a partnership. A  _partnership_ , Blaine."

"I know, I–"

"I didn't give up my  _family_  and my  _friends_  and my  _job_  and my  _home_ , just so I could sit in a safehouse with a complete _stranger_  while you go gallivanting off on some dangerous adventure and get yourself  _killed–_ "

"I'm sorry," I tell him helplessly. "I didn't want to risk your safety–"

"Oh, but risking yours is just fine?" he seethes. "We're a team, Blaine. We're supposed to be in this together. 'Til death do us part, remember? If you risk your safety, then you're risking mine as well. Because if you die..."

He doesn't say anything for a long time, and I realize he's crying. "Oh sweetheart, please don't cry. I'll be careful, I swear."

"You'd better. Because if you die, I'll freaking  _kill_  you."

I smile fondly. "It's a deal."

He sniffles daintily. "So tell me where it is that you're going."

"I can't do that."

"Partnership, Blaine!" he shrieks again.

"I don't want to worry you. And if I tell you, you'll worry."

"Oh, yes, and telling me  _that_  just eases  _all_  my concerns,  _thank you_."

"I will be under full Marshal protection the entire time. And the place we're going is under even tighter security than your safehouse is."

"You promise?" he asks weakly.

"I promise. Kurt, the only reason I'm doing this is so that you and I can be together, and that we can be safe. Us  _and_ our families." I look up to see Scott returning to the car, his arms laden with large coffees and bags of food. "Sweetheart, I've got to go. We're getting back on the road. I love you."

"I love you too. Let me talk to Scott for a second. Off speakerphone."

Scott gets into the driver's seat, looking at me quizzically as I hold out the cell phone. "Kurt wants to talk to you," I tell him. He sets the two cups of coffee into the cupholders, then hands me the bags before taking the phone from me.

"Hi, Kurt," he says. "What's up?" As he listens, his eyes slowly widen. Kurt speaks for a good minute or so, before Scott chokes out, "I understand." Then he hangs up.

"What'd he say?" I ask.

He starts the engine, looking shellshocked and a tiny bit impressed. "Holy crap. We could save ourselves the trip and just put Kurt and Marco Castellano in a room together. Kurt would scare the shit out of him."

* * *

We stop to sleep only once, at a motel outside of Topeka. It's not the worst place we've ever stayed; the beds look clean and the carpet doesn't smell. The complimentary toiletry kit comes in handy, too, since all I thought to bring was a change of clothes.

"You know, it's a good thing I'm not gay," Scott says, falling face-down onto one of the beds and not moving. "Or Kurt would be totally worried right now."

"No he wouldn't." I'm tired too, but unlike Scott, I'm taking the time to brush my teeth.

He flips over to look at me. "Sure he would. I'm hot."

"And I'm very happily married, and I have no interest in fooling around with anyone else. Kurt knows that." I pull out the floss and get to work, leaning over to look in the mirror as he narrows his eyes appraisingly at me.

"I wonder, though," he says.

"Wonder what?"

"If your meeting with Castellano goes as you hope, and you get him to call off the hit, will you stay with Kurt?"

I straighten up in shock, and I'm sure I look ridiculous with a long string of floss hanging from between my two back molars, but I'm too indignant to care. "Why on earth would you ask me that?"

"Well, think about it. You'll finally be free. You won't have to worry about always looking over your shoulder... having someone keep all your secrets... You could go for someone a little hotter this time."

I grab both ends of the floss, digging hard into my gums to keep from going over and hitting him. "What is your problem with Kurt? You've never liked him."

"I don't  _dislike_  him." At my humph of annoyance, he adds, "No, it's an important distinction. It's not like I hate him. He seems like a nice enough boy. I just don't get why you were so fixated on being with him–"

"Because I'm in love with him, idiot!"

"If you hadn't gone to New York to find him, your cover probably wouldn't have been blown. And Kurt would be going along his merry little life, not shut up in some safehouse. Was it really worth it?" He raises an eyebrow. "It's not like he didn't date while you two were separated. Did you about know that?"

"Of course I did."

"Really," he says dubiously, and I throw my floss away angrily.

"He went out with a guy from one of his fashion classes at NYU, and a soccer teammate of his roommate Eddie's, and a guy he met at an audition. One date with each of them. And nothing happened, not even a kiss."

"And you believe that."

"Yeah, I do. Because he would have told me if something had happened, especially since he knows I wouldn't have objected if it had. I left him, remember? What was he supposed to do, pine over me forever?"

"No, that was  _your_  job."

I stalk over to the other bed, pulling down the covers and getting in. "Look, I get it. You don't believe in young love, or soulmates, or whatever. You've made that perfectly clear over the years. But lay off the criticisms of Kurt. We've made a lifelong commitment to each other, and that's based on  _our_  contract, not the mob contract that's out on my head." I yank the covers up hard, adding, "Besides, even if I  _were_  single and you  _were_  gay, I still wouldn't touch your scruffy ass with a ten-foot pole."

He laughs to himself as I close my eyes and try to calm down.

Scott may be my protector, but sometimes I forget what an asshole he is.

* * *

The further we get west, the more sarcastic and snide he gets. I'm fiddling with the GPS, looking at the map to plot out the rest of the trip, when I realize the reason. Feeling a little snide myself, I give Scott a sidelong glance. "We're not far from Denver, you know. Isn't that where you and your family live?"

He keeps his eyes on the road, grunting in reply.

"I could drop you off there, if you wanted. You could spend some time with your wife, and Will..."

"I'm not leaving you without protection, Perfecto."

"Sure, no problem. I'll wait at your house for someone to come and relieve you."

Scott gives me an annoyed glance. "There aren't any Marshals stationed around here for a hundred miles."

"I can wait."

"Just... just mind your own business, Perfecto. I don't want to stop in Denver."

"I heard you Skyping with your wife every night when we were at the hotel. It didn't sound like you two are having any marital problems."

"We aren't," he says defensively.

"And your son sounds like a great kid."

"He  _is–_ "

"Then why don't you want to be with them?"

"I–" he bites back a reply, shaking his head. "You wouldn't understand."

"My dad and I have been separated for almost a third of my life," I point out. "I know what it's like to grow up without a father around."

"It's not that simple–"

"Why would you choose to do that to your own kid? He needs you."

"I can't  _protect_  him!" Scott bursts out. "You don't know what's out there, Perfecto. You think you do, but you have no idea. There are mobsters, sure, but there are also pedophiles, and serial killers, and child traffickers, and they're all out there, just waiting to pounce."

"So you leave him? How does that make any sense?"

"When I'm at home, I can't be with him all the time. And every time he leaves the house to go to school, or ride his bike, or play ball with a friend, I wonder if that's the time when he won't be coming home." He squeezes the steering wheel tight. "You wouldn't understand."

I nod, slowly. "How old is Will?"

"Don't." He grits his teeth. "Don't try to psychoanalyze me."

"I just find it interesting that you chose to leave him when he was three and a half, when the trial started."

"I said don't."

"Isn't that the age Billy Rice was when you met–"

Scott swings the car hard off the highway and onto the shoulder, where he shoves the gearstick into park and turns to me, his eyes blazing with anger. "When I say stop,  _you stop_."

"What did you think, when you named your son after him?" I persist. "Did you think it'd bring Billy back? Undo your mistakes?"

"No, of course not–"

"So what, then, you're worried that you cursed him by giving him that name? Once Will turns eleven, once he's older than Billy ever got to be, are you absolved of your guilt? Is that how it works?"

"Fuck you, Perfecto. It's so  _easy_  for you, isn't it. Witness a crime, testify in court, and then let all of the rest of us pick up the pieces. Demand that we break protocol so you can go chase after some boy, demand that we break it again so that your precious boy can call his father, and again when you want to go make a deal with a death row inmate... it's your world, isn't it? The rest of us just live in it."

"Just drive," I snap, and he pulls back on the road angrily. "Let's go right past your house, for all I care."

"Go to hell."

"And stop calling Kurt a boy," I add. "He's more of a man than you'll ever be."

We don't speak for the rest of the drive, not even when San Quentin State Prison comes into view.


	7. Chapter 7

It isn't what I expected, visiting San Quentin. I guess I envisioned some sort of mash-up of all the prison movies I've ever seen – having to endure the indignity of a body cavity search by the door, being paraded down a long hallway, flanked by cells of yelling, jeering inmates – but when we enter the prison, it just feels like a building.

A building with barbed-wire fences and armed guards, but still, a building.

Scott leads me silently through a side door, where a heavy-set security guard is sitting behind a desk. Scott signs us in and surrenders his weapon before we step through a metal detector. Then, there's a lot of paperwork, and a lot of waiting. We sit side by side, not talking, staring straight ahead.

It occurs to me, suddenly, how much I wish that Kurt were here right now. My first instinct had been to leave him behind for his own safety, but I'd forgotten how desperately I need him when I'm afraid. I wish I could hold his hand, feel his reassuring warmth beside me. He would know what to say to set my nerves at ease. I'm sitting tensely, trying to shore up the courage to face my demon – literally – and all of my courage is sitting in a safehouse back in Kentucky.

A blank-faced woman in a dark suit approaches at a quick pace, her heels clacking loudly on the concrete floor. "Marshal Scott Ward?" she asks as she reaches us.

Scott stands up. "Yes. That's me."

"I'm Janine Giordano, Mr. Castellano's attorney." She doesn't even glance at me as they shake hands stiffly.

"Thank you for agreeing to this," Scott begins. "We–"

"Thank my client," she interrupts. "He's meeting with your witness against advice of counsel. And there are stipulations to the meeting."

"What kind of stipulations?" he asks warily.

"First, Mr. Castellano will only meet with Mr. Sanders in private. You are not allowed to be present for the meeting. Nor am I, for that matter."

Scott's jaw tightens in displeasure. "Why?"

"Because that's how he wants it," she replies flatly. "Remember, he's under no obligation to meet with your witness. Those are his conditions; take them or leave them."

"Well..." He swallows, looking at me. "I guess as long as there are guards there in case something goes wrong–"

"Private means  _private_ , Marshal. My client will only meet with Mr. Sanders if they are completely alone together."

There's a sudden, sharp pain in my shoulder as Scott grabs my upper arm and yanks me roughly to my feet. "You know what? This is bullshit. We're leaving," he growls through gritted teeth, glaring at the lawyer. "I should have known this was a mistake–"

"As I said, take them or–"

"Lady, if you think I'm going to leave my witness in a room with that crazy–"

"Scott, stop," I say firmly, twisting my arm out of his grasp. "I need to meet with him."

"He killed two men point-blank, Perfecto. And dozens more–"

"And we're in a maximum security prison. I assume Mr. Castellano will be handcuffed, right?" I ask Ms. Giordano, who nods.

"Can you give us a minute?" Scott asks tightly. She looks annoyed, but wanders down the hallway away from us. "Listen," he says to me urgently, his voice fading down to a whisper. "I don't like this. Something's not right here."

"Yeah, I'm about to have a meeting with a Mafia godfather. That's never going to feel right."

"I know you hate me. Hell, I hate you back half the time. But don't do this just because you're pissed at me. I can't protect you like this."

"I don't hate you," I tell him. "And I'm not doing this to spite you."

"Let's just leave," he pleads. "We can forget this ever happened. I'll find another place to hide you and Kurt. Somewhere more isolated, where you won't have to worry–"

"Don't you get it?" I interject. "I  _always_  have to worry. It's all I do anymore. I worry about whether Kurt will still be there when I get back. I worry that my parents' cover has been blown. I worry that Burt's heart won't be able to take the stress of going into hiding. I haven't had a good night's sleep since I was  _twelve_ , Scott. I can't walk down the street without listening for footsteps behind me, or watching for people lurking in the shadows. I just want to be able to live a normal life again. I want my family to be able to live normal lives, too. And the only way I can make that happen is by meeting with Marco Castellano, here and now."

"Still..." Scott looks torn.

"It's a power play," I insist. "He's stuck in prison for the rest of his life, unable to make any decisions of his own, and then he hears that I want to meet with him. So he makes some ridiculous demands just to feel like he still has some power. Let him stay deluded, as long as I get to meet with him."

A prison official and two guards approach us, and Scott finally nods reluctantly to me in accession. He sits back down, Ms. Giordano coming back to stand near him. I know he's watching as I follow the official down the hallway.

We don't see any inmates on the way, but with the two guards right on my heels, I can't help feeling like I'm a prisoner. "Now, you're only permitted to meet with Mr. Castellano for ten minutes," the official says to me briskly as we walk. "His hands and feet will be cuffed. Do not approach the prisoner at any time. Knock twice on the door if you want to leave the room before the ten minutes have elapsed. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

I imagined one of those little two-way telephone booths when I pictured our meeting, but Castellano is waiting in a regular conference room, already seated at a long table. There's a small black box sitting on the table in front of him, and I recognize it as a device to keep recorders from working in the vicinity. Must have been another one of his _conditions._ Taking a deep breath, I enter the room, trying not to flinch when I hear the door close behind me with a click.

He looks older and thinner than the last time I saw him. His face looks wearier. His eyes are just as sharp, though, and they watch me closely.

"Long time no see, boy."

I pull out a chair and sit down, maintaining a healthy distance. My heart is racing, to the point where my chest is starting to hurt. "Yeah, I've been too busy to visit, sorry."

"So I hear." He is indeed cuffed, to my relief, but I'm still nervous. There are plenty of things he could do to me without the use of his hands. I'm starting to understand why Scott didn't want me in here alone. "Tell me, how's New York this time of year?"

"Cold. Windy."

"Windy, yeah. I hear your bathroom window had quite a draft. You should really talk to your super about that. George, isn't it?"

He's trying to frighten me, trying to get the upper hand. I force myself to meet his gaze with a bravado I don't feel. "How about your cell? Nice and toasty?"

"I'm comfortable. Unlike you right now. "

"I'm perfectly comfortable," I shoot back. "And when I'm done, I can walk right out that door a free man. Unlike you."

"A free man." Castellano smiles, slowly. "Yes, that's right. You've got to get back to  _Kentucky_ , don't you?" I can feel my blood run cold as he speaks. "Maybe your Marshal will let you call your folks in Florida on the way back. Though their phone service has been pretty spotty lately, from what I've heard. But yes, you've got to hurry back to Kentucky. Fast as you can."

It's taking every bit of my self-control not to bolt from the room. "You don't scare me," I claim.

"Oh, I terrify you," he corrects me. "And you don't even have any idea how much I already know. About where you are, and who's with you." He leans back a little, smirking. "I have to say, I was surprised. I mean, I knew you were a queer, we all did, but I didn't know you would... go that  _extreme_. If he were any girlier, he'd be a girl."

"Don't talk about him."

"Who, Kurt?" He runs his tongue over his yellowed teeth. "Pretty little Kurt, all alone and defenseless?"

"He's not alone. Or defenseless."

"Right, right. He's got a U.S. Marshal with him." Castellano says with a smirk. "You think I don't have U.S. Marshals in my pocket, kid? How do you you think you ended up with Scott Ward, of all people? You think that was a coincidence?"

I keep my face carefully blank. "Scott's not in your pocket."

He throws back his head and laughs, loud and long. "That's hilarious. Not in my pocket. Oh, that's rich."

"He's not."

"Well, of  _course_ he's not, you moron. The Marshals on my payroll are actually competent."

"He–"

"You ended up with Scott Ward," he interrupts, "because I made it happen. He's the embarrassment of the entire Marshal Service." He looks me right in the eye, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "The organization used to brag about their success rate. Plastered it all over the place;  _No witness security program participant, who followed security guidelines, has been harmed while under the active protection of the U.S. Marshals._ I memorized it, Perfecto. Want to know why?" He grins. "Because they don't get to say it anymore."

"If you think I don't already know about Billy Rice, you're wrong."

"I'm sure you do know. It was big news back then. The ten-year-old son of a federal witness, gunned down by–"

"I said I  _know_."

Castellano nods. "Marshal Ward slipped up. He got sloppy, and disgraced the entire organization. So when it came time for my contacts to choose your Marshal, I made sure that you were paired with him. I made sure you got the worst possible agent."

"If that's true, then you made a mistake," I tell him, folding my hands on the table in front of me. "Because you paired me with the one Marshal with something to prove. The one Marshal who'd do  _anything_ to try and keep me safe. The one Marshal who'd actually put up with my demands and–"

"Why are you here?" he hisses. "Is it to flaunt the fact that you're still alive? Because believe me, boy, one snap of my fingers and–"

"Notice you haven't, though. You know where I am, you know where my parents are, and yet you've never snapped those fingers. Why is that?" He just stares at me, so I continue. "You must have known that we were vulnerable. You must have known that you could've had us by the throats and squeezed until we cried  _uncle_ –"

"I knew it." He spits to the side. " _Fuck_. I knew that's what this was about."

"What did you think, that we didn't see? That we wouldn't tell?" I shake my head. "We've got leverage, Marco. You know it, and I know it."

Castellano watches me appraisingly. "You've got nothing. Unless you got something on film – which we both know you didn't – there's no proof."

"Legally? Yeah, you're right. That's one of the reasons my dad and I never brought it up at the trial. We didn't have any proof, and we'd be painting an even bigger target on our backs if we testified that a U.S. Senator was on the yacht with you that day. But you and I both know that your nephew was there. He stood and watched while you murdered those men. And while he didn't pull the trigger, he didn't report it, either. And that makes him an accessory to murder."

"Which you can't prove," he says again.

I smile humorlessly. "But I don't  _have_ to prove it. All I have to do is call up the _New York Times_ and tell them what I saw. What my dad and I both saw. And it will be all be over for your nephew. The race for governor, the Senate seat, all of it."

"Are you really trying to threaten  _me_? You're out of your element, Perfecto."

"You may know where I am, and where my family is, but you can't touch us. Because if you do, we've made arrangements for recorded statements of what really happened to be mailed to all major media outlets. And if you think it will hurt your nephew's political career for this to surface  _now_ , imagine how the public will react if it comes out after we're dead." I raise both eyebrows. "You're so close to having a West Coast Mafia member as governor. You really want to jeopardize that?"

Castellano sneers at me. "Is that what you think? That Victor's in the Mafia?"

"He was there, on the–"

"I know he was there. But he's not a member."

I shake my head. "It's all the same–"

"It's not, though. He was there that day because we were trying to  _entice_  him to join. All Victor had to do was shoot the two snitches." He sighs. "He wouldn't do it, though. Said it went against his morals. He tried to get me not to do it, but... well... let's just say I don't have a problem with morals. That was the day Victor broke ties with the Castellano family for good."

"So why do you care what happens to him, then? Why are you protecting him?"

"He's family," Castellano says slowly, as if I'm stupid. "He's my blood, and he's a senator. And he'll be governor one day."

"You're proud," I realize. "You're proud that he's legit."

He glares at the table sullenly. "It's hard to shake our family reputation. But Victor is a good man. The only time he's ever broken the law is when he didn't report me for the hits. I don't want to see him sunk by the choices I've made."

"Then let's make a deal today, Marco. Let's protect Victor together. I want my family's safety, and  _Kurt's_  family's safety, in exchange for our silence."

This makes him pause, and blink at me. "Wait... that's what you're here for?"

"Yes. That's all I want."

He looks bewildered, like he expected me to ask for more. Maybe he's used to wild demands for cash or favors. But money and power don't interest me; that's the biggest difference between me and Marco Castellano. "The hit orders are already out there," he says. "The West Coast Mafia doesn't just reverse a hit. It doesn't work like that."

"Who says you have to reverse it? You put out a new photo with the hit order, and a couple of days later, spread the word that the hit has been carried out. You claim you awarded someone the million-dollar bounty – someone you trust, someone whose silence you can buy. And once people think the hit's been made, they'll stop looking for us."

He cocks his head and squints at me, thinking. "Even if that did work, even if did call off the search dogs... no one's ever  _really_  safe. You could get mugged walking down the street in New York. Your fairy friend–"

" _Husband_."

"Your  _husband_ could get sideswiped by a car. There are a million different ways someone could accidentally be killed."

"And you'd better pray none of them happen to any of us.  _Or_ my husband's family. Because I'll assume it's you, even if it's not."

He's silent for a long time. I'm holding my breath, hoping against hope that he's actually considering it. "So all you want is for the hit orders to be removed. That's it."

"That's it."

"And you and your father won't tell anyone about Victor."

I nod firmly. It's not a deal that my conscience is fully comfortable with, but it keeps our families safe – something mine hasn't been in thirteen years. "You're a smart man, Marco. You know that the media is going to focus in on the West Coast Mafia's connection to Victor, now that his run for governor has begun in earnest. And if there's still a hit out on a witness who testified at the age of twelve, it doesn't look good for your nephew. No matter how much he tries to distance himself from you."

It's clear from his face that he's been thinking the same thing. "This still doesn't get me vengeance, though," he says, wavering. "For what you did to me."

"No," I agree. "But we've suffered. My family, and Kurt, and his family too. We've paid a price."

He blows out a long breath. "Fine... fine, you've got a deal."

My pulse is racing out of control, and I struggle to stay calm. "How long till you can get the wheels in motion? Pay someone off and get the word out that the hit's been filled?"

"A day, maybe two." I guess my surprise shows, because he adds, "Don't forget who I am. I can make anything happen."

"I know." I get to my feet and look at him. He seems smaller, suddenly. "Thank you, Marco."

He nods stiffly. "I have to say, you've changed a lot. You remind me of someone else at your age."

"Please don't say it's you."

"No, actually. You remind me of Victor."

I don't have a response for that, so I cross over to the door, knocking twice loudly. A guard opens it to let me out, and I set off down the hallway. Two quick turns and I reach Scott, running past him as he rises to his feet. Through the metal detectors, and out the door, and I'm outside. Outside and free. I take a deep breath of fresh air, and think about Kurt, and New York, and Milan, and possibilities.


	8. Chapter 8

I'm tired. Way too tired to wake up yet; my limbs feel like they've melted into the soft surface of the mattress. But I can hear someone breathing noisily next to the bed, and when I crack an eyelid blearily, I see a pair of big blue eyes peering back at me.

"Who are you?" he asks. "Why are you sleeping on the sofa bed?"

I sit up reluctantly, stretching my back and yawning. "My name's Blaine. You must be Will."

His eyes open even wider. "How'd you know my name?"

"I'm a friend of your dad's."

There's a faint creak from the hallway as soft footsteps draw nearer to the guest room. It's a struggle not to panic. Marco Castellano and I may have made a deal, but decade-old terrors don't just go away in a day. The door cracks open slowly, and I let out a sigh of relief as Scott sticks his head in. "Oh, you've got to be kidding," he groans when he catches sight of Will.

"Dad, there's a guy in here!" Will tells him unnecessarily. "He says he's your friend!"

"This is Blaine; he  _is_  my friend." Scott pauses. "Sort of. Anyway, I told you not to go in the spare room, buddy."

"You didn't say why. I thought maybe you had a surprise for me."

I rub my palm against the back of my neck, stifling another yawn. "It's okay. I should get up anyway. What time is it?"

"Just after four. You were only asleep for a couple of hours. Sorry Will woke you—he just got home from school."

"S'fine." I get up and stretch again, my muscles feeling tight and sore. "So what's the plan now?"

"Now we stay here for a few days, lay low," he says. There's a somber expression on his face, but when I look at him questioningly, he shakes his head and flickers his eyes over to Will. "What would you like for dinner tonight, Blaine?"

"I'm fine with anything."

"We could have pizza, or Chinese, or tacos, or—"

"Ooh, say tacos, Blaine," Will implores, and I smile.

"Tacos would be great."

Scott nods and disappears, while Will studies me curiously. "So how do you know my dad?"

"Oh, that's kind of a boring story. Hey, do you have a Playstation or something?"

"Nah, Dad doesn't let me play video games. He says they're too violent. We have a ton of board games, though. Want to play one?"

"Sure, sounds like fun." Will bounds off, and I get up to follow.

Scott and his family live in a nice little house in a suburb of Denver. It's homey, with careworn furniture and walls covered with Will's artwork and framed school photos. We head into the living room, where Will opens a cabinet and starts calling out the names of the board games they have inside. "Okay, there's Apples to Apples, and Monopoly, and Clue, and Cranium, and checkers, and Bananagrams, and Scrabble, and—"

It's weird, being here. Scott has always been this mysterious, aloof, somewhat obnoxious presence in my life. It's surreal to see him in his home, out of his suit and tie, with his son, pushing a Swiffer down the hallway to pick up cat hair.

He's a person, and I think I've forgotten that sometimes.

"Blaine?"

I blink, looking down at Will. "Sorry, what?"

"Which one did you want to play?"

"Oh, uh... how about Clue?"

He swivels his head to look over at Scott. "Dad, we're gonna play Clue. You want to play too?"

Scott shifts uncomfortably. "Clue?"

"Yeah, it's that game where you have to figure out who murdered the dead guy and you gather evidence and then you have to decide who did it, and whether they strangled him or shot him or—"

"Scrabble," I interrupt quickly. "I meant Scrabble. Let's play that."

Scott's wife Hannah arrives home from work around six. Her eyes light up when she sees that Scott is here, and they kiss in the foyer for a bit while Will and I clean up the board game tiles. Eventually she wanders in and ruffles Will's hair affectionately before turning to me. "You must be Perf—"

"I'm Blaine," I interrupt, smiling apologetically as I reach out my hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

She shakes my hand, studying me. "You're not what I expected."

I'm not sure how to interpret that, so I just nod awkwardly and finish picking up the little tiles.

* * *

Dinner is a lively affair. They have a tradition, Scott explains, called Highs and Lows. Each person at the table takes turns talking about the best and worst thing that happened to them that day. Will goes first, telling us in great detail how his friend Matt accidentally spilled spaghetti in the lunchroom and Will slid on it, bumping into Mackenzie, who fell into Phoebe, who went flying into Mrs. Winters, who ended up on the floor with a big rip in the seat of her pants. We're all howling with laughter, despite the look of horror on Will's face.

"She was wearing purple underwear," he says, shaking his head. " _Purple_. It was awful."

"I'm sure everyone will have forgotten by this time next week," Hannah assures him. "So if that was your Low, what was your High for the day?"

"I came home from school and Dad was here," he says, beaming. "Best day ever."

After dinner comes a Pixar movie and steaming mugs of hot chocolate. Will lies down on the couch with his head on Scott's lap, and has nearly fallen asleep by the time nine o'clock rolls around. He still protests going to bed, though, until Scott agrees to read him some chapters from one of his Harry Potter books. They shuffle off down the hall side by side, Will scratching absently at his blond hair, and I'm reminded suddenly of my old friend Jeff. A lump is rising in my throat, and I excuse myself politely, telling Hannah I'm tired.

Once I'm in bed, though, under the sheets with nothing but my thoughts surrounding me, I start to think about all the people I've lost during my years on the run. My dad, my mom. All of my friends in the Warblers. The New Directions kids who'd welcomed me as one of their own. Rachel, and Eddie, and all the guys at Dooley's. Burt and Carole in their safehouse, and Finn in Lima, and Kurt—

I squeeze my eyes shut hard, willing the tears away. I can't lose him too. I won't. I'll grovel and apologize until he forgives me for leaving him behind. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to him.

Once the deal with Castellano has been settled, Kurt and I will get another little apartment together, I decide. We'll move to some city where two men living together will blend into the scenery. And we can just  _live_. We might even decide to start a family of our own; I know Kurt would make an amazing father.

I lie in the dark, listening as Scott reads to Will on the other side of the wall. He's a good storyteller, and as he recounts the story of a brave little boy fighting against evil, I finally succumb to sleep.

* * *

It's early. Way too early to wake up yet. But I can hear someone breathing softly next to the bed, and when I crack an eyelid blearily, I see a pair of big blue eyes peering back at me.

"Hi," he whispers, and I launch myself at him. "Easy there," Kurt chuckles breathlessly. "I'm still mad at you, remember?"

I just squeeze him tighter. He's here. Solid, and real, and  _here_ , and instantly Scott's house feels like home. "Are you really here?"

"Yeah, honey, I'm really here."

The tension of the past week finally starts to ease from my muscles. I breathe in his scent slowly, burrowing my face against his neck. "I'm so sorry I left you behind. It was wrong of me, and I promise I'll never do it again."

"Really," he says drily. "You'll never leave me in a safehouse while you drive across the country to a maximum security prison to negotiate with a convicted criminal mastermind? Am I supposed to be impressed by that?"

I can't help the broad smile spreading across my face. "I love you."

"You're not getting off that easy."

"I do, though," I murmur. "I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone."

Kurt hums a little. "Blaine—"

"It never matters how low my Low is, because you're always my High. Every day."

"What are you talking about?"

I pull back to gaze at him earnestly. "It's okay if you're mad at me, as long as you're mine. Are you still mine?"

He sighs, running a palm up my back, making me shiver. "I'm always yours."

* * *

We fall asleep together, lying on top of the covers fully clothed. I know I'm probably clutching him too tightly, but he doesn't complain. It's late morning when I hear a knock at the bedroom door.

"Boys? You decent?"

"Yeah, come on in," I call, and smile tiredly as Scott enters. "You didn't tell me Kurt was coming."

"It wasn't a definite until late last night. I didn't want to get your hopes up." He's wearing the same somber expression I glimpsed yesterday. "Listen, Blaine, there's something I need to show you. Can you come with me?"

"Sure." Kurt is still sleeping, so I extricate myself from his arms carefully before following Scott out into the hall. He leads me to the living room, where a large manila folder is sitting on the coffee table. "What is that?" I ask.

He gestures to the couch. "I think you'll want to be sitting down for this."

We sit side by side, and he gingerly picks up the folder. He starts to hand it to me before taking it back. "Look... I need you to understand that what you're about to see isn't your fault."

"Okay."

"I know you. I know you'll want to blame yourself." He shakes his head. "You can't, though. Or it'll eat you alive. Trust me on this."

Oh god. Someone's dead. Someone's dead because of me. I made a deal with the devil and thought I'd walk away unscathed. My breathing starts to come faster, shallower. Who did they get to? Was it my parents? Kurt's parents? Finn? Eddie? "Just show me," I say weakly, and he finally gives me the folder.

I pull it open quickly, revealing a faxed page with two grainy photographs.

"It's not your fault," Scott says again, and I draw a shaky breath.

"Jesus."

There are two dead bodies in the photos. Both have their hands and feet bound, and both have had their throats slit and their eyes gouged out. The younger man is overweight, with curly dark hair and tanned skin. The older man has thinning gray hair with a big bald spot in the back.

It's not hard to recognize them. They look like the original age-progression hit orders on me and my dad, come to life.

"Who are they?" I ask hoarsely.

"We don't know." Scott leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "We can't tell their location based on the background in the photos, and wherever the mafia dumped the bodies afterwards, they're well hidden. My team went through the missing persons database, and no one matching either description has been reported missing."

I can feel bile rising in my throat as I stare at the younger man, his bloody eye sockets and slit throat conveying the message perfectly:  _You saw nothing, and you'll say nothing_. "How could they find people who looked like us so quickly?"

"Don't forget there was a million-dollar hit order out on you," he reminds me. "They must have had calls coming in all the time about people who matched your description. Castellano probably just had to open up a file and point." He slides the fax back into the folder before looking at me intently. "You're not responsible for this, Blaine."

"No," I shoot back sarcastically. "No, I'm sure the West Coast Mafia totally would have murdered these guys whether or not I'd just made a deal with Marco Castellano to call off the hit."

"He's insane. You couldn't have predicted he'd do something like this."

"I should have—"

"Blaine." He leans toward me, his eyes pleading. "Believe me. It's not your fault."

All of a sudden, I get what's really happening here. It's a little overwhelming, realizing the power that Scott is inadvertently giving me, but I owe him this much. "You're right," I tell him. "Castellano doesn't use logic, and he has no regard for human life. It's not my fault if he decides it's in his best interest to kill two innocent strangers. Or my family. Or even a little boy."

He looks away, swallowing thickly. "This isn't about that."

"Scott, it wasn't your fault when his men killed Billy Rice. You were the only Marshal with the Rices that day, and your first duty was to protect his father — the witness." I can see his gaze sweeping across the row of Will's school pictures on the wall. "You didn't think they'd murder a kid, and I didn't think they'd murder perfect strangers. It's not either of our faults."

He raises a shaky hand to his face, swiping at his eyes. "Hannah wants me to go talk to someone," he admits. "She says it's not good for Will to be around me when I'm like this."

"Do they have counselors at work? Someone you can be really candid with?"

He nods. "Yeah."

"And?"

"I don't know. I'll think about it."

"It might help."

"Maybe after we settle you and Kurt into your new home."

"And where will that be?" comes a voice from the doorway. We both look up to see Kurt standing there, watching us. I extend an arm, and he comes over to sit beside me, nestling against me as my arm winds around him.

"Wherever you want to go," Scott says. "Continental United States has the least red tape, but I can pull some strings if you want to go overseas."

Kurt looks at me speculatively, and I shrug. "Anywhere is fine with me. It's your call."

"Are we allowed to see our family again?" Kurt asks. "Our friends?"

"Yup. Now that the hit order has been filled, you'll be free to go anywhere and see anyone. You'll need to keep a low profile, of course, and come up with a cover story to explain where you've been."

"How soon?"

"How soon... what?"

"How soon can we see our family?" Kurt presses. "It's Thanksgiving in two days."

Scott smiles at him. "I'm sure I can arrange something."

* * *

Life always seems to move too fast after you've spent time living in a safehouse. Even it was just for a few weeks, you get used to the darkened rooms, the quiet days, the interminable solitude. I've moved in and out of safehouses so often, the transition doesn't bother me much anymore.

Kurt is not so lucky.

He's clearly overwhelmed by the noise level as we enter his parents' house on Thanksgiving. There are whoops and shrieks of excitement before we're both caught up in one of Burt's bone-crushing hugs. Then Finn and Carole reach us, and Rachel and Mercedes and Eddie, and there are tears and more hugs, and too many people talking at once, and Kurt looks sick to his stomach.

It only gets worse once my parents arrive. They're crying, and I'm crying, and then Carole and Burt start in too, and before I know it, Kurt has disappeared completely.

I look around for him, and Mercedes leans over to murmur, "I saw him go upstairs a couple of minutes ago."

"Thanks."

I climb halfway up the stairs before peeking back down into the living room. My dad and Burt are deep in conversation, and Rachel is talking animatedly to my mom and Mercedes, and Eddie and Finn are laughing at something Carole just said.

I think my heart may burst.

Kurt is lying on the bed in his old room. He looks up a little guiltily when I come in, but I just smile at him fondly, curling up beside him.

"It's a weird adjustment," I say, and he huffs out a breath of disbelief.

"Everything's so  _normal_."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

He lays his cheek against my shoulder. "I guess I didn't think we'd ever have normal again."

"I know the feeling."

"Do we have to go back down there?" he asks. "It's so  _loud_. Everyone keeps asking where we're going to end up living, and what we're going to do for jobs, and what names we're going to choose, and whether we're going to adopt a bunch of kids... All I want to do right now is lie here with you. That's all."

"Then let's lie here. They'll understand."

And miraculously, they do. Carole sticks his head in at one point to check that we're all right, but other than that, our families go about the Thanksgiving festivities without us. We finally venture downstairs in time for pie and ice cream. My parents keep calling me Perfecto, and Finn and Eddie keep calling me Andrew, and Rachel announces that she has the perfect song picked out for the occasion as she sets up her portable amp.

* * *

Later, after the house has fallen quiet and dark, we spoon under the covers in Kurt's bed together, giggling as we trade memories of past nights spent in here. Kurt falls asleep before I do. Still, I wake before him, and take the opportunity to watch him sleep for a while. I'm warm with contentment.

He finally wakes up around seven, smiling drowsily at me. "Hey."

"Hey."

"Thought you weren't a morning person."

"Yeah, well. It's a new day."


End file.
